Part 7 (2/2)
”Gentleman!”
”Yes--what sort of _person_ is he?”
”Oh, what sort o' person. Well, stranger, he's what we, in these parts, call a rough customer.”
”Indeed?”
”Rayther, I shed say.”
”Is he what you call a poor man?”
”All that I reckon. He hain't got nothin', as I knows on, 'ceptin' his old critter o' a hoss, an' his clarin' o' a couple o' acres or thereabout; besides, he only _squats_ upon that.”
”He's only a squatter, then?”
”That's all, stranger; tho' I reckon he considers the clarin' as much his own as I do my bit o' ground, that's been bought an' paid for.”
”Indeed?”
”Yes--I shedn't like to be the party that would buy it over his head.”
The speaker accompanied these words with a significant glance, which seemed to say, ”I wonder if that's _his_ business here.”
”Has he any family?”
”Thar's one--a young critter o' a girl.”
”That all?” I asked--seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had something more to say, but was backward about declaring it.
”No, stranger--thar war another girl--older than this 'un.”
”And she?”
”She--she's gone away.”
”Married, I suppose?”
”That's what n.o.body 'bout here can tell nor whar she's gone, neyther.”
The tone in which the young fellow spoke had suddenly altered from gay to grave; and, by a glimpse of the moonlight, I could perceive that his countenance was shadowed and sombre. I could have but little doubt as to the cause of this transformation. It was to be found in the subject of our conversation--the absent daughter of the squatter. From motives of delicacy I refrained from pus.h.i.+ng my inquiries farther; but, indeed, I should have been otherwise prevented from doing so: for, just at that moment, the road once more narrowed, and we were forced apart. By the eager urging of his horse into the dark path, I could perceive that the hunter was desirous of terminating a dialogue--to him, in all probability, suggestive of bitter memories.
For another half hour we rode on in silence--my companion apparently buried in a reverie of thought--myself speculating on the chances of an unpleasant encounter: which, from the hints I had just had, was now rather certain than probable. Instead of a welcome from the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his cabin, I had before my mind the prospect of a wordy war; and, perhaps afterwards, of spending my night in the woods. Once or twice, I was on the point of proclaiming my errand, and asking the young hunter for advice as how I should act; but as I had not yet ascertained whether he was friend or foe of my future hypothetical antagonist, I thought it more prudent to keep my secret to myself.
His voice again fell upon my ear--this time in a more cheerful tone. It was simply to say, that I ”might shortly expect a better road--we were approaching a 'gleed;' beyont that the trace war wider, an' we might ride thegither again.”
We were just entering the glade, as he finished speaking--an opening in the woods of limited extent. The contrast between it and the dark forest-path we had traversed was striking--as the change itself was pleasant. It was like emerging suddenly from darkness into daylight: for the full moon, now soaring high above the spray of the forest, filled the glade with the ample effulgence of her light. The dew-besprinkled flowers were sparkling like gems; and, even though it was night, their exquisite aroma had reached us afar off in the forest.
There was not a breath of air stirring; and the unruffled leaves presented the sheen of s.h.i.+ning metal. Under the clear moonlight, I could distinguish the varied hues of the frondage--that of the red maple from the scarlet sumacs and sa.s.safras laurels; and these again, from the dark-green of the Carolina bay-trees, and the silvery foliage of the _Magnolia glauca_.
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